


Lost!

by Anomaliam



Series: Time Stands Still [3]
Category: Primeval
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anomaliam/pseuds/Anomaliam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Helen aims the gun at him, Nick knows he's going to die. So why does he wake up in the hospital? And why is it, the last thing he remembers before he blacked out, is a pair of impossible blue eyes? It can't be Stephen; Stephen's been dead more than a year. And even if it is...he's not the same Stephen that Nick knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a re-post from CDM's orphaned work. Some changes have been made to the first six chapters, and the seventh on are original.

Claudia was right: this was a mistake. He knows it the moment he turns round and sees Helen pointing the gun at him. This was a mistake.

"Oh, for God's sake," he says as he turns back to face her. What else can he say? He knows he should be scared (he is, to a certain extent; there's a gun pointed at him, and he's not sodding suicidal) but really, more than anything else, he's exasperated. Impatient. They're in a burning building, so it seems to him like there are more pressing matters than a future millions of years from now. But not to Helen. No, she's going on about it like it's the very next day, whatever she's afraid of. Like whatever the hell it is she's trying to do, it has to be done that very moment.

She really is a tempestuous arse of a woman.

"You really know how to pick your moments, don't you?"

"If you'd seen what I've seen you'd understand."

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn't. Truthfully, he's not sure he wants to. Helen was never the easiest to live with before, but whatever it was she saw, it changed her, and not for the better. It turned her into a fanatic. A terrorist, in every sense of the word. It turned her into a killer.

And he knows when he sees the tears in her eyes, even before she pulls the slide back on her gun, that he's slated to be her next victim.

He knows there's nothing he can do about it, either. Nowhere he can run, not fast enough to outrun the bullet that has his name on it. Nothing he can say to change her mind. He's going to die; he knows that.

But for all the things he regrets, all the things he wishes he still had the chance to do that he knows now will have to be left to the others, there's a small comfort that keeps the panic at bay.

"You know what, Helen?" he says. "You're not as smart as I thought you were."

Because his death? It won't change anything. It'll be a hiccup at best, because he's never been the crucial one. He's never been the one that's going to alter any outcomes or write any lines of history. He's a footnote (albeit an interesting one, hopefully). It's the people he's leaving behind that are the real difference-makers. Connor and Abby and Sarah, they're the real players. Not him.

There's no doubt in his mind: Helen's going to fail. And as much as it pains him knowing he won't be there to see the failure sink in and the self-righteousness turn sour, he can at least die knowing it's going to happen. Whether he's there to see it or not.

He won't give her the satisfaction of begging. He keeps his face impassive as he steels himself for the ring of the gunshot, for the pain of the bullet ripping through his chest. He sees her shaking hand tighten around the grip of the gun. Seconds, now. Hopefully, it'll be quick. She won't miss; he knows that. At this range, with her obvious talents with a firearm, she'll hit whatever she's aiming at. Right now, that looks like his heart.

So, it's really just a matter of time.

For what it's worth, he doesn't want to die. But if it has to happen, he does wish she'd hurry up and get on with it.

Just then, though, the beams behind Helen start to break. He can't see what's happening; there's too much smoke, and Helen's in the way. But it almost sounds like someone's pushing through them, and then the flames flare, throwing harsh red-orange light through the room.

"No!"

It's a man's voice, shouting over the roar of the fire. It's strange, because it's not Connor's voice or Becker's or any of the soldiers he knows, but it's familiar. Eerily familiar, like he could put a face to it if he only just took a moment to do it.

He never gets the chance.

The gun goes off.

Nick's never really given much thought to what it would feel like to be shot, so he can't say whether it meets or exceeds expectations when it happens. All he knows is that it feels like someone's smacked him in the shoulder with a cricket bat rather than an inch-long piece of metal. It's off-centre, and it twists him around a bit with the force of it, enough that he loses his footing. He falls.

And there's the pain.

When it comes, it comes en masse. Vaguely, he's aware of the sounds of a struggle. Someone's shouting, but with the blood roaring in his ears and the gunshot still ringing in his head, it's hard to make out what they're saying. He tries to get himself up to see what's going on, but that's a struggle in and of itself. He hears Helen spitting and swearing, and the man with the familiar voice grunts in what sounds like equal parts surprise and pain, and by then, Nick's managed to push himself up onto an elbow. Just the one, though. He doesn't know if he could move his left arm if he tried, and he's not too tempted to give it a go.

Turns out, it's not much use. The fire's burning brighter, and the smoke's gotten thicker. His eyes are watering, and through it all, he can only really make out silhouettes. Helen's the first he sees, and it's the back of it at that. She's running away, he realizes, quick as she can. Obviously, it's not him she's worried about, so that leaves the man.

Fascinating as his ex-wife's retreat is, it's the man that Nick looks for with his bleary eyes. His attention's sort of frayed, scattered, like he's trying to mentally hold onto dozens of ropes all pulling opposite directions of pain and confusion and more pain and curiosity. He can feel his grip slipping with each second, and it occurs to him he's losing consciousness. Shock's setting in, maybe. He feels cold, and he can't seem to draw a proper breath.

And yet, even as he feels himself blacking out, he can't bring himself to look away. Ever the scientist, always curious. Even when he's bleeding out from a gunshot wound.

But it's more than that. There's something familiar about the man, more than just his voice. He's tall and lean, and even though he's standing at an angle to Nick, there's something about his posture that Nick recognizes. Something that he knows, on an almost subconscious level. He can read meaning in that posture, in a way he can't do with most. It's almost automatic. Second nature.

The man looks confused. Or maybe conflicted is a better word for it, because he has his feet braced apart, and he's shifting his weight between them, glancing towards Nick, then down the hall, back and forth, like he wishes he could go both ways at once.

He wants to go after Helen; that much is obvious. But he seems to want to stay, as well. Or, at least, he doesn't seem to want to leave, which Nick finds to be fairly reassuring. He needs help. Alone, he doesn't stand much of a chance of getting out of there alive.

He knows the man. He knows he does. It's like a word on the tip of his tongue, so close he can taste it, but there's something blocking it. Maybe it's the pain, or the shock. Maybe it's something else. But he knows the voice, the outline; he knows the mannerisms. It's just his name and his face that's escaping him, and the more he tries to think about it, the more shrouded it seems to be. He's slipping. He can feel himself going, feel his limbs getting heavier and his breathing slowing, his heart fluttering. He has another few seconds, at most.

And then it clicks, and he forgets how to breath altogether.

"Stephen." The name leaves his lips with the last of his air, but the sound of it somehow manages to carry over the roar of the flames. And if there was any doubt in Nick's mind when he said it, it's put to rest when the stranger (not Stephen, he corrects himself, because Stephen's dead; this man can't be Stephen) snaps his head to look at him.

He seems to make up his mind, then, and with one last look after Helen and a low growl that Nick could be imagining, he turns and jogs over to Nick. He still can't see his face. It's too smoky for him to see much of anything, and when he inhales, he gets a chest full of smoke for his trouble that has him coughing again.

Only, he can't stop. Every one sends a shock of pain through his shoulder and down his arm, but he can't make it stop. His lungs burn, his eyes prickling with tears, and when he feels hands on him, trying to pull him up, it's all he can do to choke out a protest between coughs.

Not-Stephen pauses, but only for a second, and then he's moving again, trying to pull Nick up with him. Trying, being the operative word, because Nick can't help, and he knows he's the heavier of the two of them.

It's a distant sort of awareness. It's like he's drunk, almost. He can see the black edges starting to close in from the peripheries of his vision, and his head feels like mashed peas.

"Come on, Cutter," Not-Stephen says in Stephen's voice. It's the same one that's haunted Nick's dreams and nightmares and waking thoughts for more than a year, now. It sounds strained, as if through gritted teeth, but Nick's not looking at his mouth. He's not looking at much of anything, really. He can't seem to get his eyes to focus, and he doesn't really care to try. "We can't stay here."

He's probably right, whoever he is. But in the end, it doesn't really matter. The ropes have slipped, and everything Nick has holding him to consciousness is gone. He isn't going anywhere. Shame, too. He'd have liked to know who Not-Stephen really is, but the darkness is already closing in too far.

The last thing he sees is a pair of bright blue eyes, and a face he never thought he'd see again staring down at him through the smoke.


	2. Chapter 2

When Nick comes to, he's in a hospital. It's nothing dramatic. No sudden gasp of breath or shock of pain that startles him awake. He's just … awake, and he's sore, but he thinks they must've given him the good drugs, because he can't seem to order his thoughts.

All he has is the memory of bright blue eyes.

A soft snore from the side of the room draws his attention, and he turns his head (carefully, because bloody hell, that smarts) to see Connor sitting in one of those plastic chairs that hospital rooms always have, head lolled back against the wall with his mouth hanging open.

He's asleep. Poor man's still wearing his clothes from that day. Or the day before, maybe. Probably. It's light outside, and it was nearing evening when they made it back to the ARC from the hospital. He only hopes it's still morning, that he hasn't gone and slept a whole day.

Either way, he figures Connor has to be tired. And after everything that happened, Nick wishes he could let him sleep, but he can't. He needs his help. He needs to get something sorted, something that's got his heart racing and his mouth dry as a Silurian desert.

"Connor," he says through clenched teeth. He's trying to push himself up, but it feels like he's been batted around by a pair of Ankylosauruses for a few hours while he's been asleep. It's not just his shoulder that hurts, but his whole body.

He's managing, though. Really, really good drugs.

"Connor! Wake up."

Connor, unlike Nick, does give a gasp, and bolts up in his chair so quickly he nearly topples arse over elbow out of it. There are two kinds of people in the world.

He's grinning as he scrambles up and over to Nick's bed, but a weird sort of panicked look settles in soon after. "I don't think you should be doing that just yet, should you, Professor? The doctor said—"

"Where is he?" Nick interrupts.

Connor falters. "Actually, it's a she." He makes a face. "Sort of a shrew, if we're bein' honest. You haven't missed out on much bein' out."

"Not the doctor, Connor. The man. The man from the fire, the one that brought me out of it." Stephen. Or Not-Stephen. He doesn't bloody know. His head's all over the place, but all he can see when he closes his eyes is that same bright, lakebed blue staring back at him. It's not possible; he knows it's not possible. He saw him standing in the middle of that room with Leek's creature army closing in on him. He heard him cry out when they set upon him and tore him apart.

Stephen's dead.

So then who the hell was it in the fire?

Whoever it is, it gets a reaction out of Connor. His lips form a tight line that's a little too stressed to be his usual puppy-faced pout. "We're set up back at the Home Office while the fire-fighters finish clearing the building," he says. He's hedging, and not very well at that. He's uncomfortable with the subject, and Nick can only guess at why.

Maybe he saw something different from Nick. Or maybe he saw the same thing, because that's plenty to give pause on its own. People don't just come back to life. There's always a twist, a catch. With Helen, it's that she never really died at all, but instead went off on some future-saving mission to exterminate the ARC and apparently put an end to her husband. Knowing their luck, he could be another one of Helen's clones. He's seen himself already. Who knows what all Helen's been up to? Or maybe it was some hallucination born of shock and smoke inhalation. There's no way to know unless he sees him.

He needs to see him.

"They've got him there, then? At the Home Office? The one that got me out."

Connor nods. "Lester's been trying to get something out of him since they brought him in. Becker, too. Neither of them are having much luck, though." He frowns. "Cutter?"

"What?"

There's something Connor's expression, something uncharacteristically subdued. But it's not something bad. It's almost ... hopeful, in a way. "You don't ... you don't think it could really be him, do you?"

He doesn't say the name. Stephen. Saying the name makes it real, makes it that much harder to stay rational. Nick knows, because it's the same for him. Maybe it's worse for him, because what's dangling in front of him isn't just the hope of a returned friend; it's so much more than that. Stephen was so much more than that, before everything went wrong. Before Helen came back and cocked everything up.

Before Nick let her.

He winces, and he'll pretend for his own sake that it's because of his shoulder. "I don't know, Connor," he says. "I only saw a bit of him before I blacked out." Even if he can't forget what he saw. "You'd probably know better than I would."

The look on Connor's face says he doesn't necessarily buy that, but he doesn't say anything. He might've meant to, but before he can, a nurse appears in the doorway. Instead, he straightens up. "I'll go ring Abby, let her and the others know you're awake." A nice thought, and a convenient excuse not to be in the room when Nick inevitably has it out with the doctor over an expedited discharge.

"You do that," he tells him. "But don't leave just yet. I'm going to need a ride to the Home Office."

He'll get all of this sorted. And the sooner, the better.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a pain in the arse, getting his marching orders from the doctor. They wanted to keep him another two days for observation, but when they couldn't come up with a satisfactory reason to do it (his shoulder is mostly soft tissue damage; it will heal on its own, with some physiotherapy) he took the necessary measures to get himself discharged.

He and Connor make it back to the Home Office around seven that morning. Armed with a blister pack of painkillers and a fresh kit Connor'd had waiting when he finally got the all clear, he marches in past security with a look that dares them to try to stop him. His explanation on why is waiting just the other side of the lobby, in a fresh pantsuit and a mood.

"You shouldn't be here," she says, but the smile on her face and the red rims around her eyes tells Nick she's glad he is. If only because that means he isn't dead, so she can kill him herself.

He knows who he has to thank for that. Sort of. If it wasn't for that man, whoever the hell he is or isn't, Nick would be dead right now. His showing up when he did threw off Helen's aim; that by itself was a saving grace, and then he'd apparently carried him out of the building? He doesn't know who he is, but he owes him some level of gratitude. Assuming he didn't have some sort of nefarious ulterior motive for doing it.

One way to find out.

"Have you gotten anything out of him?" Nick asks. They're walking, Jenny just a few steps ahead so she can lead them where they need to go, since Nick hasn't the foggiest and following Connor would be the blind leading the blind.

Jenny shakes her head, but doesn't offer any elaboration until they're in the privacy of the lift and on their way up to the seventh floor. They have a minute, in other words. "Nothing of use," she says. She sounds frustrated and tired. He expects that's going to be a theme for the foreseeable future. "He told us to let him go when we first brought him in, and he had some choice words for Lester when he asked about his involvement with Helen."

"'Choice words?'"

"Let's just say they weren't what you'd call helpful." The disdain is palpable. "Or polite." She frowns and takes a breath, like she's preparing to say something she really doesn't think she ought to. "Cutter, I don't know how to say this, but I don't think it's him."

Beside him, Connor practically deflates. He won't deny it hurts to hear. Jenny knew Stephen, too, and if she doesn't think it's him, he's got to give that the weight it deserves. She's probably right, at any rate. The odds of it ... things like this don't just happen. And certainly not to them. He's not the type to think the cosmos or whatever deities do or do not exist have it out for them, but if there is any omnipotent being up there in the sky somewhere, they certainly aren't in the habit of giving them a hand-up, either.

He's trying to stay scientific about this. "Any reason in particular?" he asks. Curious is a much more comfortable emotion than anxious, and it's a bit more in his field of expertise.

Jenny just shrugs haplessly. "I can't put my finger on it," she says. "He's just ... different, somehow."

It's not much to go on. It's not anything to go on, really, but Nick takes what he can get. Any road, they're on the right floor, and the doors of the lift open up to another office space. It's a bit less grand than the lobby, but still very dignified. And stiflingly bureaucratic. There's not as much glass as he remembers from the last time he was here. He thinks it might be a different floor, made more of drywall with wood grain doors. The farther they walk, the more security he starts to notice.

They're still on alert. Of course they are. Helen's attack's left them all shaken (for Nick, it had nearly left him one better), and they're still scrambling to pick up the pieces. Phones are ringing all over the place, and he watches people skitter to and fro. It's enough to make him dizzy.

Or maybe that's the low blood pressure. It's still a bit dippy from the blood loss.

"Are you alright?" Jenny asks. He realizes he must look about as rubbish as he feels, because Connor's at his other side, a hand on his good arm like he's afraid he's going to lose his footing.

He's not in that shoddy a state just yet.

"I'm fine," he says.

Jenny looks disconsolate. "I still think you should be back at the hospital resting."

Nick manages a tight smile he thinks might almost come off as kind. "Then it's a good thing my doctor was easier to persuade than you." It's a joke, but there's a note of sincerity to it. If his doctor was anywhere near as stubborn and wily as Jenny can be, he might never have got out.

The smile doesn't last, though. The truth is, as much as he's been trying to avoid it, he's nervous. His heart's lodged somewhere up in his throat, and his stomach's tied itself in knots. What if everyone's right? What if it isn't Stephen? To have his hopes built up, even as little as he's allowed so far, and then have them dashed? It'll break him all over again.

A year, it's been, and he's still not over losing him. And the way it happened, too ... he died horribly, ripped apart by predators and thinking that the man he'd taken the place of hated him for something that, if he's being honest with himself, wasn't entirely his fault. He's had a lot of time to think on it (a lot of lonely nights with a bottle of Glenfiddich), and he knows he should've handled things differently. He shouldn't have pushed Stephen away like he did after Helen ousted their affair. Not only was it what she wanted, but it wasn't fair to Stephen. It wasn't fair to either of them, and he's regretted it every day since. He'd do it differently, if he could.

And that's what makes this so hard. Because there's this niggling, irrational voice in his head that thinks maybe ... maybe he can.

It's at odds with the rational part of his brain. The one that realizes that, even on the astronomically off chance it is Stephen, that would only raise more questions than it answered. How did it happen? How did he escape the predators, and why did it take him a year to come back? The timing was too coincidental, and Nick Cutter does not believe in coincidence.

"Here we are," Jenny says, swiping a key card through the lock of a door and pushing it open. And rational thought be damned, he's still half expecting to see Stephen when he walks in.

Instead, he's in a big room. Lester's there, and Abby and Becker, and a few of Becker's men are posted at both doors: the one Nick and company just walked through, and the one on the right wall, next to a big glass pane with the shutters drawn.

That's where he is, then.

"Cutter," he hears Abby say. She's stood over by the window, and where normally he might expect some sort of hug or something from the zealous zoologist, he can see she's not planning on moving anytime soon. There's something rooting her to that spot by the window, but he can't decipher the look in her eyes well enough to decipher what it is. On the one hand, she looks happy to see him. But on the other, she looks worried. And it doesn't appear to all be for him.

His heart climbs higher in his throat. Abby's a steady girl; she's not one to get all out of sorts over nothing.

Crossing the room, he joins her at the window with every intention of seeing just what it's about. He's tired of guessing. He wants answers. He needs answers, and at this junction, it's only his two eyes he's going to trust.

He doesn't bother raising the blinds, instead pushing a few of them apart with his good hand so he can see through to the other side.

He no sooner looks than it feels as if he's been doused with ice water.

"It's him," he breathes without really meaning to. He just can't help himself. The surprise of it's enough to leave him gasping, feeling like he's just been punched in the gut or given a shock.

There's a man in the room. But it's not just any man. Nick knows that almost-copper brown hair, albeit it's a bit shaggier than he's used to seeing. It's messy and dirty and matted in some places, too, but Nick's seen it in that state plenty of times before. He knows the shape of him, too. Tall and lean, even cloaked as he is by his filthy clothes: jeans and a too-big three-button long sleeve that all looks like it's been put in the wash with a handful of mud, rocks, and razorblades.

It's the way he moves that's the real clincher, though: that casual, effortless grace that toes the line between aquiline and predatory. Not quite a slink, but something close. It's the kind of movement that can only come from a hyper awareness of himself and his body, of every muscle and bone and joint.

Granted, Nick thinks just now he might have an awareness of his own, and he thinks he might've been up-selling it all these years. He's having second thoughts about popping one of those blister packs, just to take the edge off.

He forces his mind back on track. The not-quite-slink is really more of a pace just now, he notices. The man (he's still not willing to call him by name; he's still not sure it's him) is on his feet, as if the chair and table in the middle of the room don't even exist, carving a path in the concrete floor as he prowls back and forth.

Like a wild animal in a cage.

Nick doesn't bother asking what they're doing with an interrogation room in the middle of an office building; those are the sorts of questions he'll leave to men like Lester. No, he has other questions he's more interested in having answered.

"How long has he been in there?" he asks. His voice is hoarse, and he doesn't tear his eyes away. He almost can't bring himself to. Whether it's him or not, it looks like Stephen. As far as his eyes can tell, it is him. And there he is, standing just the other side of a pane of glass, pacing rivets in the floor.

Stephen was never one for standing still.

He tries catching himself. Doesn't know that this is Stephen. Just because it looks like him doesn't mean it is. Helen's already shown she has the technology to make clones, and he wouldn't put it past her to do something like this.

It's hard, though. It's uncanny, how much this looks like Stephen. Stephen, the man that was with him for years, through all sorts of things. Stephen, who saved his life more times than he could count (maybe once more, with this last one) and sometimes made it worth living in the first place.

He's spent long nights with that man, and long mornings and long afternoons; he doesn't know that there was a single person in the world he could spend so much time with and not be fed up with them before all was said and done. And he knows for a fact there's only the one man that could do the same with him.

He was more than just an assistant to Nick. More than just a friend, even. He loved him. He trusted him, even after what Helen did. But he'd let her drive a wedge in it, poison one of the few good constants he'd ever had.

And when Stephen died, there were so many things that Nick hated he'd never had the chance to put right.

So, yes, it's hard to stay objective, to remind himself that this is probably some sick, cruel trick dreamed up by his vile ex-wife to get back at him for some perceived slight. Because the alternative is the sort of thing he's dreamed of since the moment he lost him:

A second chance.

When he doesn't get an answer, though, he does turn away. "I asked how long he's been in there." Cooped up, pacing, agitated. It's been a little over ten hours, now, since the fire, and clearly they haven't given him a chance to pop home for a shower.

Not that Stephen would have a home to pop in to.

"Cutter. You're looking well," Lester says dryly. His idea of a greeting. He's standing behind the desk on the left side of the room; it looks like he's been busy, sorting through the dozen odd files splayed out across the surface. Personnel files, mission reports ... he would know; he wrote most of them. One, he recognizes immediately as the one he wrote after Leek's attempted coup. He only knows it because of the coffee stain spread out across the whole top half of it. He dropped the cup when he was trying to write it, made a right mess.

It dawns on him, then, what they're doing. Trying to read up on Stephen, on what happened. Trying to put pieces together with what they have, since the only possible source they have at hand apparently isn't feeling very contributory.

Lester clears his throat. "Barring the odd trip to the toilet, he hasn't left it. For security purposes, we can hardly have a dead man running about. Especially one with such impeccable timing."

Which, if he's looking at it objectively, is understandable. Fair, even. But as he's already admitted to himself, he's having a hard time being objective.

"I need to talk to him."

"I agree," Lester says without missing a beat.

Well, that's unexpected.

Lester continues. "Clearly, the captain and I aren't going to make any headway with him, short of extraordinary measures. Which I'd rather like to avoid if at all possible. You can't imagine the paperwork." The frightening thing is, Nick can't tell if he's joking or not. "Besides, say this man is who he appears to be ... if experience tells us anything, it's that if anyone can make him see sense, it's going to be you."

He himself doesn't sound impressed, but there's an undertone to it. Lester and Stephen have never been on the best of terms, but he's a member of the team; that means something, to everyone there.

Only Becker won't have known him, and maybe his men, but he's standing there with Abby, arms folded across his chest and brows furrowed so deeply, Nick thinks he can almost read his thoughts in the lines between them.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Jenny asks. She's looking between Nick and Lester, like she expects one of them to spontaneously see reason and change his mind. "He's only just out of the hospital, and that man's already broken a soldier's nose."

Nick's eyebrows jump. He hadn't heard that, yet. He looks to Becker, who responds with an almost sardonic twist of his lips. Yes, it says. Yes, he did. But considering the lack of heat in the expression, he thinks there might be more to it. A story for another time, then.

"Cutter?" Lester says, and waits until Nick turns back to continue. "It's your choice, of course. If you wouldn't feel safe entering the room, I obviously can't force you. And you understand, as per your contract, that if anything should happen, the damages be on your head, yes? The government holds no liability for any injury you may or may not sustain in the course of your ... interview. Do you understand?" He asks it with the air of someone going through the motions. They all know Nick's going through that door, unless somebody physically stops him.

It doesn't happen.

"Of course," he says.

Jenny looks less than pleased, but Lester seems to think this is the right way to go about it, and Connor and Abby both are looking at him with matching hopeful/worried expressions. As if he's going through an anomaly to save the world, rather than a two-inch-thick door to talk to one person.

"Lester, you can't be consider—"

"Cutter is a grown man, Ms. Lewis, fully capable of making his own decisions. Captain Becker will be right outside with us to see if he's protected; he'll be safe as I was."

"But you hadn't just been released from casualty."

"Technically, I was released from recovery," Nick offers helpfully. He can tell Jenny doesn't appreciate the addendum, but it is what it is. She's worried about him; he can appreciate that. But he's going in that room.

He's going to get his answers.

So, with Lester's nod as blessing (not that he needs it) he turns on his heel and walks into the next room.


	4. Chapter 4

His heart's racing as he steps inside.

He still can't quite get his head around it. A year. A whole bloody year, he's thought Stephen was dead. And maybe he is. Maybe this is just some cheap knockoff Helen's cooked up to fuck with the, but … it just doesn't feel like it. Standing in the room with him, not even a pane of glass to separate them, it just feels too damn real.

For his part, Stephen looks like he can't decide how he feels. His head snapped around as soon as Nick stepped through the door, but other than a brief widening of his eyes, his face stays impassive. Had he always been able to do that? Had the Stephen that Nick knew always been so guarded?

The answer makes Nick frown. Because the answer is, 'Yes.' Yes, he had. There were times he let the walls down, especially during those months they finally stopped dancing around each other and finally did what Nick realizes now they should've done from the start. But for the most part, Stephen's always held the world at a distance.

He probably has more reason for it than most.

"Suppose I might've knocked first," he says lightly. It's a bullocks attempt at a joke, but he had to say something. Someone had to break the terse stalemate that stretched on between them, neither moving or speaking, and it obviously wasn't going to be Stephen. "But I didn't think you'd answer."

He doesn't answer that, at least. He just stands there on the other side of the table, body sort of angled. Nick recognizes the meaning behind the stance. He's defensive. Uncomfortable. His eyes dart to the door behind Nick, and Nick has to bite back a sigh.

"There's four men just the other side of that door," he tells him patiently. "With guns." Which he isn't sure he really wanted to tell him. Stephen looks like a spooked animal, all wide eyes and clenched jaw; the last thing he wants to do is give him something else to fret about. Besides, he needs answers, and the best way he can think of to get them is to make whoever this is comfortable enough to get them.

Christ, though, but it is uncanny. Those eyes ... he knows how convincing the clones can be, but it's getting harder by the moment not to give up the scepticism altogether.

He watches those eyes dart back to the door again, sees the calculating look in them, and this time, he does sigh. "You're not going anywhere they don't want you. Not until they know you're not a threat. So, unless you feel like spending another night cooped up in here, I think it's time you break your vow of silence."

Nothing doing.

This is going to take longer than he thought, which isn't his idea of good news. He's tired, and his shoulder's really starting to smart. He's invested, but he's only human. A human with a hole in his shoulder, at that.

Making up his mind, he nods to the chair nearest him. "You mind?"

Still no answer. Silence is a form of consent.

When he takes a step towards the chair, though, Stephen stiffens. Nick recognizes it better than he likes to admit.

Stephen didn't really talk about his background much. The only things he'd casually mention were his credentials as an Olympic shooting prospect and football star in high school, and maybe, if he was heading towards pissed or just feeling particularly share-y, he might mention his conservation work. Just ... never in any detail.

There would be times, though, when he'd come back from holidays, sometimes a little scuffed up or bruised not unlike he is now, and he'd be so on edge for days on end that Nick would be half convinced he was afraid someone was out to get him. He'd never talk about it (Nick had put some pieces together, figured out that the kind of conservation work Stephen did was the kind that meant coming back from Africa with a bullet graze or from Iceland with a broken arm) but days like that, especially once he became his research assistant, Nick knew to approach with caution and handle with care.

And even though he hadn't gone on any of his conservation trips since the anomalies started cropping up, Nick still knows how to identify the signs. And how to do the dance.

Approach with caution, handle with care.

"Settle down," he tells him, closing the rest of the distance to the chair and sitting down. "I'm old and just out of the hospital, if you haven't heard. Stand if you like, but I'm sitting down."

Nick's aware he's being watched as he sits down. He watches the man (Stephen, supplies the unfailingly optimistic voice in the back of his head) furrow his brows, and that's when he notices that some of the dirt in his hair isn't dirt at all.

"Maybe you should've gone with me," he says, gesturing to his own brow, towards the top left. On the other, it's where his hair sort of falls into his face. Or is plastered to it, more like, by what looks to be dried blood. It seems recent. The bruising's starting to spread down the side of his face, visible through the grime only when Nick really looks. "Has anyone had a look at it?"

To his surprise, that actually gets a bit of a smile. More of a twitch of his lip, really, but Nick's willing to take what he can get. It takes him a second to figure it out, but when it dawns on him: that guard with the busted nose. He wonders now just how he'd come by it, and what he'd tried to do that'd earned it for him.

Stephen always did hate medical professionals.

"You shouldn't have done that." His heart's not in the scolding, though. "He was just doing his job."

It falls on deaf ears.

He tries his best, but in the face of yet another brush-off, Nick loses his patience. He stands, ignoring the blood rush and surge of pain, and braces his good arm on the table. "Damn it, why won't you say anything? I know you can speak; I heard you in the fire. So what is it? You don't trust us? Because I can tell you they," he points back towards the window, "don't trust you, either. And that's not going to change until you tell us who you are and why you're here. Are you Stephen Hart, or aren't you?"

Because that's what he really wants to know. That's what he needs to know, and he's well aware that the other could just lie to him. He could lie to his face, and Nick might not be any the wiser. But he likes to think he knew Stephen. Knows him, maybe.

He knows that his favourite football team is Liverpool, even though they've never won a Premier League title (and never will, says the Everton fan in him). He knows his favourite drink is Fuller's, but that he tolerates Nick's "Glenfiddich Fetish" for hard liquor. He knows he sleeps on his left side, hates to be cold, and loves to be touched as long as it's on his terms. He shoots like an ace, kisses like a dream, and fucks for England.

And he knows he's been hurt. He knows he has nightmares that would make lesser men break, that he's got nights he can't sleep until he's literally run himself down and days when the smell of gin makes him pale like he's waiting for a hit that doesn't come. He knows he still bins any post that comes from a specific address in Cressington, and he knows ... he knows that despite all that, Stephen is still the most courageous, passionate, devoted man he's ever met.

He knows that, now; he only wishes he'd seen it then, before it was too late.

"Well?" he says sharply. "Are you?"

"Does it matter?"

Nick has to do a double take. He nearly missed it, quiet as it was and flustered as he is. But it was there; he said something. Finally.

Unfortunately, what he said wasn't much better than the silence. Nick looks at him like he's daft. "Of course it bloody matters! Don't you understand? You shouldn't exist. You've got the face of a dead man. You've got his voice, his mannerisms. And you just show up like you did, out of nowhere, in the middle of the fire? What're we supposed to think?"

A laugh. At first, Nick can't believe it, but there's no denying it. The man's laughing, head bowed and shaking. "You think I'm working with Helen." It's not a question. He's smart, and it's not that difficult a puzzle to piece together.

"So tell me otherwise!" Nick snaps. It comes out sounding like a plea. He wants to hear it; he needs to hear it. And the sooner he gets an answer, the sooner he can figure out what the hell they're supposed to do. For his part, he hopes it's getting Stephen (knowing, at last, that it is Stephen) out of that room, getting his head looked at and whatever else he has wrong with him. Get him checked for smoke inhalation, for all the good it will do him now.

Straightening, he starts around the table. He tries not to pay any mind to the way the man takes a step back, to the way his fists clench at his sides. He tenses up, but he doesn't freeze. Everything about Stephen had always been so mobile, so fluid; he was a creature built for speed and agility rather than power. If this turns out to be him, or even someone with half his quickness, it'll be left to the soldiers outside to catch him if he tries to bolt, because there's nothing he'd be able to do. And although he trusts the men not to be overly brutal, he doesn't trust the situation not to escalate from there. No. He needs to do this on his own.

He takes a breath to calm and steel himself. "Easy," he tells him, his one good hand out in plain view as he takes another step. He doesn't want to corner him, doesn't want to threaten him. But he's been in this room for too bloody long. Clone or not, in that regard, it doesn't matter. He's still human. He doesn't deserve to be caged, to be injured and not treated, and even if he can understand why (he's not given them much choice, as evidenced by the soldier with the broken nose) it's time to put an end to this. "I'm not going to hurt you. No-one is." Another step. The man's breath comes faster. His nose flares. "Just help me understand."

Instead of an answer, though, all he gets are lips pressed in a tighter line and eyes darting once again to the door. Nick can practically hear him thinking, calculating.

He arches an eyebrow. "You really don't like it in here, do you?"

He isn't expecting an answer, and he's not sure what to make of the one he gets.

"I've been here too long." He shifts his weight to his back foot, then to his front. His fingers pull at a loose string on the sleeve of his shirt.

Damned if that doesn't send another pang through Nick's chest that has nothing to do with his shoulder. He recognizes the behaviours. They're all things Stephen did when he was stressed. Really stressed, and trying not to show it. He's chewed his lip nearly bloody, and his eyes just won't stop going to the door. He ventures a guess. "Somewhere you need to be?"

"You need to let me go, Cutter. Now. You don't know what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," Nick replies calmly. "I'm trying to get answers, but you're not being cooperative. If you'd just answer my questions—"

"I don't have time for your questions, Nick!" He's shouting, now. It catches Nick a bit by surprise. He'd been so quiet to that point, but it seems like he's passed the limits of his patience. He lets out a growl, turning away from Nick. He doesn't quite put his back to him, he notices, more walking at an angle from him like before. His hands scrub roughly through his hair. "I have to go," he says, voice low and almost frenzied. "I have to go, before she does."

"Helen?" It's not that difficult a conjecture to make.

The man doesn't even look at him. "If I don't find her, I could lose her. I have to find her."

"Why do you want to find Helen so badly?" He has to admit: it's a troubling thought. He remembers back in the fire, when he'd started to chase after Helen. He only changed his mind at the last minute. Maybe he was afraid she'd leave him behind. The clones don't seem to have much of a mind of their own; he saw his own clone lost without her to guide him. Maybe that's what this man's afraid of. Maybe he's afraid of being lost. "What is she to you?"

Another laugh. This one's higher than the last, more terse. Incredulous, almost. "You're asking me that question?" he says, and this time, he actually does look at Nick.

"I just did, didn't I?"

"You don't think I'm me, either, do you?" His bright blue eyes are narrowed and he's back in a fever pitch. "What? You think I'm one of her clones? One of her lackeys?" With each question, he seems to get more agitated. He glances again at the door. "What time is it?"

Well, that was a bit out of the blue.

When he doesn't get an answer immediately, he repeats himself. "What time is it, Nick? They took my watch. I need to know the time."

Nick checks his own without thinking. "It's nearly half-past seven."

Stephen swears.

"Why does it even matter?"

"Because!" Nick's suddenly rounded on, and there's a look in the other's eyes that nearly makes him take a step back. Sheer stubbornness and force of will keep him rooted to the spot, but he suddenly feels ... uneasy. "Because I have to stop her, Nick! You can't do it, Lester can't do it, your little soldier boys can't do it! So I have to."

A swell of almost childish indignation rises in Nick's chest. He wasn't expecting a full critique. Bloody hell. "We're managing."

"You nearly died!" And there's something in his voice as he says it, a roughness that can't just be smoke. Nick watches his Adam's apple bob beneath the shadow of his scruff, but then his jaw tightens again. The muscles stand out visibly under the skin. His face is thinner than Nick remembers, with harder lines and darker shadows. If this is his Stephen (his Stephen, as if he somehow has the right to call him that after everything those last few months) then the year was a hard one. He doesn't look bad, just ... different. And now, he looks angry, that barely-restrained fire he only ever got when he thought he knew best and no-one else was seeing reason. "You don't understand! When she's in this time, it's already too late. The planning's done. The arrangements are made. You're just waiting for the aftermath!"

"And yet, here we stand."

"Because I knew!"

Before Nick can react, the man surges forward, hand gripping the front of Nick's shirt. He doesn't jostle him, doesn't hurt him, but Nick's faced with the startling awareness that if he wanted to, there wouldn't be a whole hell of a lot he could do to stop it. He's seething, but his eyes are locked with Nick's, and for the first time, Nick feels like it's real. Like he's real. Stephen. How many times has he seen that look? That intensity, that passion. He knows it like he knows his own reflection, and he can't believe that any clone could ever replicate that fire.

It's Stephen. He's here, and Nick suddenly can't breathe. His pulse roars in his ears, so loud he nearly doesn't hear what Stephen says next.

"I knew what she was planning. I followed her back to try to stop it, and you still got a bullet in you. If I hadn't—" He stops before he can finish, but then, he doesn't need to finish. Nick knows just fine what would've happened if Stephen didn't show up when he did. (Christ, he's acknowledged it; it's real, now.) "You're not managing, Cutter. You're damage control."

And before his words can really sink in, the door opens. Stephen doesn't look at it anymore, though. Nick can see the awareness in his eyes, but he doesn't break his staring match with Nick. He knows what's coming, but he seems to think this is more important.

"You have to let me go, Nick," he tells him, voice quiet but intense. Hurried. "You have to make them let me go, before she finds another anomaly. She knows I'm here, now. Alive. She's going to run before I can follow her. She's going to run." He blows out a breath through his nose, and for a moment, Nick can't help thinking he looks ... sad. "I can't stay here, Nick. I'm sorry."

Nick wants to ask why, but he never gets the chance. Stephen lets him go, suddenly, and takes a step back. And if it was anyone else, Nick might've thought it was coincidence that Stephen released his grip just before one of the soldiers grabbed him. But it's not anyone else. He really believes that, now. He's tried objectivity, but no clone could mimic that look.

And when Stephen let him go, it was just in time that Nick doesn't get dragged along with him when the soldier pushes him up against the wall.

"Easy with him," he finds himself saying as the first soldier and his partner fight to wrestle his arms behind his back. He's not screaming or thrashing; Nick half expected that he would, the way he's been acting. Wild. Like an animal.

But he isn't.

He's just not making it easy on them.

"Cutter, I think you should come with me," Becker says from behind him. He's watching the display with a look Nick can't quite place, only that he's not happy. Nick can sympathize.

"What are they going to do with him?" he asks. They have Stephen's arms zip-tied behind his back, now, and they're leading him out of the room. And he doesn't say a word. It's like he's shut down. He still fights, in a way. Nick can tell the soldiers are having to push him forward and hold their grips tight. But it's nothing compared to what Nick knows Stephen can do.

Becker just frowns. "The minister's ordered some tests, now that Jenny's managed to secure a lab to send them to."

It's enough to snap Nick out of the daze he's been in. "Tests?" He feels a strange, almost protective instinct swell in his chest. He doesn't like the sound of that: tests. "I want to go with him." He tells himself it's practical. He knows the most about Stephen; he thinks he can offer valuable insights.

If he's being honest, though, he's just afraid to let him out of his sight. Afraid it'll somehow all turn out to be a hoax after all, when he's not looking.

"It's essential personnel only," Becker tells him. "Sorry."

And it's only because Nick believes he really is that he doesn't fight him on it. That, and the throbbing in his shoulder that's increased tenfold now that the adrenaline's wearing off. He tries a different approach.

"Can't they try giving him a bed and a meal first, at least?" he says. "I think they might find him a mite more agreeable when he's not sleep-deprived and half-starved. And the man did save my life; surely that's got to count for something."

"We tried, Cutter. The meal, at least. He wouldn't eat it."

"He's scared."

"He's a security risk."

But when Nick turns around to him, he sees an expression at odds with the words. Like he says them as a matter of course, rather than a matter of personal conviction. "Tell me honestly," he says on a whim, "do you think he's dangerous, Captain?"

Becker actually seems to think on his answer before he gives it, which Nick appreciates. For all everyone accuses him of being a trigger happy soldier boy, the man's actually very thoughtful when it's appropriate. "I think he's an unknown," he says finally. "And here, unknowns are dangerous. Especially now."

"But?" Nick can sense a 'but' to that statement.

Only, Becker shakes his head. "That's the end of it." And as much as Nick hates that answer, he knows that for a man like Becker, it has to be. He's there to protect them, and danger is danger. "Come on, Professor. Lester needs to speak to you."

What can Nick do but follow him? Sighing, hand going to the blister pack of pills in his pocket, he starts past Becker out of the room.

"Professor?"

He slows down, and Becker falls into step beside him.

"I can't put any more of my men at unnecessary risk," he says. "But I'll see what I can do for your hero."

That bit, Nick didn't see coming. "Thank you."

Becker might shrug, but it's hard to tell with the set of his shoulders. He doesn't know if the captain does anything so pedestrian as that, at least while he was in his uniform. "It's the least I can do. It's like you said: he saved your life."

For the second time that day, Nick doesn't get the chance to ask for an explanation. Becker walks ahead, and he knows that's meant to end the conversation.

Luckily, this time, he sort of figures it out for himself. That expression he wasn't quite able to figure out ... it was guilt. He was blaming himself, and now, Nick thinks he knows what for. It's Becker's job to protect them. If Nick died in the fire, even if it wouldn't have been the captain's fault, Nick can't help wondering if he might have taken it as some sort of personal failure. And a man like Becker doesn't take kindly to failure like that. There's a weight on that man's shoulders that seems like far too much for someone his age.

He wonders if maybe he sees Stephen as a kindred spirit, at least in that regard.

At any rate, Stephen's actions spared him a loss. So maybe Becker doesn't know Stephen, but there's a respect there that means something in its own right. The thought sort of impresses him. Seems he might not have given the captain enough credit.

Then again, it seems he's been wrong about a lot of things.


	5. Chapter 5

It's not even been an hour when the alarms start going off. The radios on the soldiers' vests start chattering, and the phone on Lester's desk starts ringing up a storm. It's mad.

"What's going on?" Nick asks. Whatever it is, Lester doesn't look pleased about it, and the soldiers are all running around the room like there's some sort of emergency. Nick feels out of the loop, and it's not a feeling that's ever sat well with him.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist (or, in this case, an evolutionary zoologist) to figure out it has something to do with Stephen, at least. Or the all-too-convincing Stephen look-alike, says the voice in his head that's still stubbornly clinging to scepticism. He's more or less convinced it's him. But the past few hours have made him paranoid the same way they seem to have made everyone paranoid, and he's not yet willing to accept any good news without some level of doubt.

Bloody hell, he'd thought alternate timelines made things complicated. Throw clones in the mix, and they've got the makings of a real headache.

Just then, the door opens, and Becker comes in. Judging by the gun in his hand and the hard frown on his face, something's gone wrong.

"He's escaped."

"What do you mean, 'he's escaped?'" Lester says, but then, at Becker's pointed look, he shakes his head. "Never mind. Just find him." He doesn't wait for Becker to respond to pick up the ringing phone. Seems the alarm system has a direct line to someone Lester really doesn't want to talk to, but important enough that he hasn't got a choice.

Let him take care of that; it's what he's there for. Nick has other concerns. Adrenaline helps him push up from his chair and ignore the bit of head rush in favour of chasing Becker out the door. Behind him, he can hear Connor and Abby following him out.

They've barely made it out the door when Becker whirls around. "Stay here," he tells the three of them. "He could be anywhere in the building. It's not safe."

"He's hurt someone?" It doesn't sound like a question so much as a challenge, like she doesn't believe it. There's a hint, though, of worry, like maybe she's afraid he has. Nick imagines he feels about the same as she does. He's starting to think Stephen was telling the truth when he said he's after Helen. Why else would he save Nick? Maybe to gain their trust, but that plan would've been flawed from the start. And he wouldn't have botched it with an escape attempt.

Although from the sounds of things, he's done one better than an attempt.

Becker, mercifully, shakes his head. "He startled a few lab techs, but no-one was hurt."

"What happened? How'd he get out?" Nick wants to know.

"He managed to release the tie on his wrists. Locked the guards on the other side of the lab door, crawled into the ventilation. We think he must've mapped out the floor beforehand." He doesn't even have it in him to look impressed, just really pissed off.

Connor, on the other hand, was smiling. "Whoa," he says. "That's all very ninja, isn't it, though?"

Nick shoots Connor a look that says 'not the time,' although he has to admit he's a bit impressed himself. Stephen's always been resourceful. But escaping from a small army of soldiers in a multi-story, heavily-secured office building ... it's quite the feat, even for him.

"If you'll excuse me." Becker casts one last glance between the three of them, a sort of unspoken warning to heed his orders with a side of resignation knowing full well they probably won't, then turns and jogs off down the hall.

"So, just out of curiosity," Connor pipes up once Becker's disappeared down the hall, "who d'you think would win in a fight: Stephen or Becker?"

This time, it's Abby that shoots him a look.

"What? I'm just asking is all."

Abby ignores him. "Should we try to help him, Cutter?"

For a moment, Nick doesn't answer. He's remembering that little apology Stephen gave him, just before the soldiers came in. How he had to go. How genuinely apologetic he looked as he said it, like he didn't ... like he didn't really want to go, or else felt guilty for it somehow.

He was planning on running when he said it, he realizes. It wasn't just a matter of opportunity.

And he can't help thinking he should have known. He should have seen it coming. He swore to himself. What if they can't find him? What if they can't track him down in the building, if he's already gone? If he has his way, it seems to Nick like he'll disappear through whatever anomaly Helen finds, and they'll never see him again. And he'll never know for certain whether it was really him or not, whether Stephen had lived or died.

They never had found a body. In a room full of hungry, angry predators, it hadn't seemed so odd at the time. There was blood, and some of it was human. Stephen's. That had seemed like the end of it.

But now, he can't help wondering.

"Professor?"

Connor's voice snaps Nick from his thoughts, and he clears his throat. "No," he says.

"No?" Connor and Abby reply in unison.

"That's what I said." And then he turns and starts back into the room. He needs to sit down.

"But Cutter—"

Nick turns. "Think about it, Connor," he says. "There's better than half an army of soldiers scouring the building for him. If anyone's going to find him, they're bound to do it."

It's Abby that catches on first. "If." She frowns. "You said 'if' someone's going to find him." Her eyes narrow, her head tilting to the side. "You don't think they're going to find him, do you?"

Nick's smile is equal parts sad and grim. "No, I don't expect they will." Stephen's got a knack for keeping to himself when he doesn't want to be found.

He remembers an expedition in the jungle by the Congo River basin. Poachers found their camp and were determined to find them as well, probably thinking they were part of the anti-ivory trade taskforce or something equally unwelcome. Somehow, though, Stephen was able to keep an entire research party clear of them until they made it to the labs a three-day hike away, where the eco-guards were stationed. It actually turned out to be a double blessing; not only did they make it out in one piece, but the eco-guards were so impressed with Stephen's skills, they ended up talking to him half the night and volunteered to escort them the rest of the expedition.

Christ, but has he always been this nostalgic?

The point is, "He's spent a year tracking Helen, and she's only just now found out he's after her? That's quite a feat." He doesn't like the woman, but he has to admit she's cleverer than average. "If Stephen doesn't want to be found, chances are good he won't be."

"So you do think it's him?" Connor sounds hopeful. Of course, out of bad news, he's the first to find the silver lining.

"I don't know," Nick sighs. "I know what I'd like to believe." What he's having a hard time not believing. "But if they can't find him again ... well, I don't suppose we'll ever know for sure." And that's not a thought that he likes to entertain. Whichever way it falls, Stephen or not, he wants to know. He needs to know.

He's tired of fucking mysteries.

"Maybe they'll find him," Abby says, like she thinks it ought to be said even if she doesn't quite believe it herself.

Connor joins in a little more faithfully. "Yeah. Action Man's on the job—dunno if he even knows how to fail."

Nick can't help thinking back to their earlier conversation. He supposes he almost found out. Connor's right, though; Becker is damned good at his job, and the building's practically swimming with soldiers. Chances are next to certain that they'll manage to find one man in the building before he can escape into the city at large. No matter how wily and clever that one man has shown himself to be.

They will find him.

They have to find him.


	6. Chapter 6

They don't find him.

They spent the day looking. Becker and his men must've searched the entire building top to bottom at least half a dozen times, but they never turned up anything more than the zip tie he slipped out of and the ID badge he nicked from a lab tech.

The latter is proof he's not planning on coming back to the Home Office. Or else he would have kept it, just in case.

Becker didn't wait long to expand the search outside the building. He had people roaming all over London. Nick tried to supply some spots he thought Stephen might go to, in case it really is Stephen: his old flat, his office at the university, the park he likes to go to on the weekends for football, his favourite watering hole.

Becker's kind enough not to ask how he knows it all. Of course, it might be more for his own sake. He's never shown much interest in mixing his work life and his personal life. Actually, he seems to actively avoid it.

It's something Nick's never been very good at. Clearly.

He tried, at first. But it was a wasted effort, and try as he might (and he did try, much as he's ashamed to admit it, especially after he found out about Stephen and Helen), he can't bring himself to regret it. Stephen was his closest friend. His confidant. He saved Nick's life more times than he could count, and he never asked for anything in return.

Nick likes to think he'd do the same for him in a heartbeat, but he's not sure it would've mattered. Stephen had a good heart. He made mistakes, and sometimes Nick thought he had a hard time dealing with people. With himself, even.

But he's watched him risk his life for people he's only just met, time and time again. When he believed in something, he believed in it with everything he had. That kind of devotion is hard to come by.

Nick's ashamed to admit it, but he's come to realize he'd taken it for granted. Taken Stephen for granted, even when they were ... together. And then he died before Nick had a chance to come to his sodding senses.

Or maybe not.

It doesn't matter, though, does it? Because he's gone again, and Nick will never know. Another lost loved one. Not dead, maybe. Just lost. And isn't he a selfish bastard, because he can't help thinking, as he lies there in bed at one in the morning listening to the storm outside, that it's almost worse that way.

It's just ... he can't help thinking about all the 'what if's. It's just the way his mind works, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. What if he said something when he was talking to him in that room? Done something differently? What if he realized sooner what Stephen was going to do?

What if he just told him he believed him? Would he still have left, then?

His prescription's a disappointment. He had it filled on his way home, at Abby's insistence, and took it with his dinner of Chinese takeaway. Seems he really was feeling sentimental; it's what he and Stephen always ordered in when they were working through dinner, or just couldn't be arsed to scrounge up something proper.

There was too much for one person; there's still half the order in his fridge.

He'll have it tomorrow. According to Jenny, he's not to set foot in the Home Office, or the ARC, for the next week, on pain of death. Or longwinded lecture.

Personally, he'll take death.

He rolls over. As much as he can, at any rate, with his shoulder in the state that it's in. The painkillers have managed to do their job in that, at least; they take the edge off, make it so he can breathe without it feeling like he's being stabbed a time or two or ten. Doesn't mean he's comfortable, but he's hoping he can at least get some sleep.

Come two in the morning, it's looking good. He's dozing lightly, the heavy rain beating a nice, soothing patter on the roof. The medicine has given him a bit of a glaze to his thoughts; feels like his head's been padded with cotton. A few more minutes, he would probably be asleep.

And then he hears the knocking.

At first, it doesn't really register. He's far enough under, it's sort of in the periphery, something he hears but doesn't really hear. But then it comes again, sharper this time. He blinks awake, rubbing his eyes and dragging himself upright with a groan and gritted teeth. Breathing might not hurt, but moving's pretty low on his list of things he's keen on.

Another round of knocks.

"Alright!" he shouts, standing and steadying himself on the headboard until he feels alright to move. "I'm coming!" That sounds a little better than 'bugger off.' If only just a little.

He reaches the door grumbling a few minutes later (if they want speed, they might try knocking at closer to bloody sunrise, for fuck's sake), and pulls it open with a scowl. "Whatever the hell you're after at this hour, you—" He freezes, eyes widening. He gapes for a minute, like a fish out of water, before he even manages to find his voice. "You. What—what are you doing here?"

Standing on his porch, half-drowned and looking like a damned train wreck embodied, is Stephen fucking Hart. He has a bag slung over his shoulder, one hand on the strap and the other in the pocket of his baggy Chinos, and he's looking at Nick half like he's afraid he'll toss him back out into the rain and half like he wants him to do.

"Standing," is his reply. His voice sounds weak, hoarse like before, and he smothers a cough in his sleeve. "Didn't have anywhere else to go. Think the lease's out on my flat." At least he's got his sarcasm.

If not his health.

As Stephen coughs again, Nick can't help thinking, in one of those errant little thoughts that invites itself in out of nowhere, that if Stephen makes it out of this without coming down with something, it'll be a bloody miracle. As if it's not miracle enough he's standing there.

"They're looking for you," is what he says finally.

Stephen just nods, and once again, Nick's eyes are drawn to the cut over his brow. The bruising's spread. The whole left side of his face is discoloured now, what of it Nick can see from the dim porch light. One of the bulbs is out. He'll need to do something about that.

Later.

There's still blood matted in Stephen's hair, even though he seems to have changed his kit (probably to blend in better ... and maybe to stop smelling like an ashtray), he's still filthy and covered in little scuffs and scrapes.

He frowns. "I thought you were looking for Helen."

"She's—" His voice cracks, and Nick wishes like hell he could let himself believe it's just the smoke. But he looks ... lost. Standing there, dripping wet and looking like hell warmed over and let to burn. He clears his throat. "She's gone."

"Is she, now?" It sort of slips out; he doesn't mean to say it, much less sound so sceptical. This is why he doesn't take painkillers. They muddle everything up.

Stephen's eyes harden. "Yes, Cutter, she is."

They're just words, not even particularly loud or vicious, but Nick can practically feel the anguish behind them. He can count on one hand the number of times he's ever seen Stephen lose anything's trail in all the years he's been working with him, and he was never pleased about it. But this is something different.

A year's work, he realizes, or something like. He's been after her for a year, and now she's slipped through his fingers. He's not just lost; he's angry. The kind of anger that turns inwards just as much as it turns outwards, if not more.

Nick can't help thinking some of that outwards anger, though, is directed at him.

"You still think I'm not me," he says. It sounds like an accusation. "You think I'm one of her cheap knockoffs." It also isn't a question.

As much as Nick's temper wants to rise at the jab, he just doesn't have it in him. He's too tired, and there are too many things to think about. Whether it's Stephen, whether it isn't. If it is, where he's been. Why he didn't come back. Why he's so hell bent on finding Helen now. Too many questions to answer, too many strings in too many different directions.

So, instead, he sighs. "I don't know what to believe," he says.

A strange thing flashes across Stephen's face at that. Well. More his eyes; his face stays next to impassive, but his eyes tell a different story. They always do.

Hurt. That's the best word for it. He looks hurt, and he's either too proud or too controlled or too ... something, to let it show. But Nick sees it.

Before he knows what he's doing, he's stepping aside. "Get in," he tells him, and when Stephen hesitates, he rolls his eyes. "If you were planning on anything untoward, I figure saving my life is a pretty bullocks way to go about it. And I'm tired of standing out in the cold." He doesn't say it, but he's sure Stephen has to be, too. At least Nick's dry.

Stephen raises his eyebrows, as if to ask if Nick's sure. And Christ, but he shouldn't be able to look like that, cutting his eyes up through his sodden mop of hair that somehow manages to be plastered to his head and sticking up at odd angles at the same time. He's a grown man, for Christ's sake, not to mention a seasoned scientist and survivalist. He's spent a year traversing some of the most dangerous periods in time, chasing one of the most dangerous women in history.

He shouldn't be able to look so bloody young.

"Well? You coming, or aren't you?" He waves his hand inside.

Another hesitation. Stephen glances back behind him, but then, at last, he steps across the threshold.

"Where'd you get the bag?" It's strangely conversational, but then, everything about this situation is strange. And there's a part of him that's afraid if he pushes too much too fast, Stephen will spook and run off again. Besides, he really is curious. He noticed the bag earlier, but now that he's thinking about it, he didn't have it in the room. And he doesn't expect he would've had a chance to snatch it if Becker got his hands on it.

Stephen adjusts the bag on his shoulder. "Stashed it."

"Is that everything you have?"

"Yes."

"Have you got any weapons in there?"

"Yes."

Nick won't deny the sharp lance of something that feels a lot like fear. Staring down a gun barrel was a bit too raw a memory, and even though he meant what he said (he really doesn't think Stephen means to hurt him), there's something visceral about being faced with a man that could very easily overpower him.

Then again, he probably wouldn't need a weapon. He's seen Stephen in more than a few scuffs barehanded. He's fit and wiry, and Nick would pit him up against most and double down in his favour.

Stephen lets out a soft laugh, much to Nick's surprise. He's closing the door, and when he turns back around, he's got a bitter sort of half-smile on his face. Crooked, same as it always has been. If he's a clone, he's a damn good one.

"Something funny?"

Stephen shakes his head. He holds Nick's gaze, but doesn't volunteer an explanation. There's something chary about his demeanour as he takes a step forward.

Nick takes a step back. It's the reverse of the room, he realizes. Only, somehow, Stephen's still the one that looks caged. And Nick ... Nick isn't scared. Not really. It's a bit like staring at a lion in a cage, knowing how badly it could hurt him, but knowing that it won't. That it can't. He's not sure how he knows, of if he's right to think it, but he just can't shake the notion. Looking at him, seeing the tight pull of his face and the bowstring tension in his whole frame, Nick's less inclined to run and more inclined to have him in for a cuppa and a kip.

So, when Stephen takes another step, this time, he doesn't move. He just watches him, regards him through still-bleary eyes, and asks, "What are you doing?"

Stephen doesn't answer.

It's hopeless, Nick thinks. He's not talking, he's not communicating, and Nick's not going to get any answers from him. The whole thing is bloody confounding, and Nick's not sure the situation could get any terser if someone really was being held at gunpoint.

Again.

But then, as he watches, Stephen hooks his fingers in the hem of his shirt and tugs it up over his head.

Nick's breath catches in his throat.

It's gruesome. Stephen's always had his share of scars. The lion's share, really. Some, he's told Nick about; some, he hasn't. Some, Nick was there to see him get, like the twin puncture marks he can see resting on his left shoulder. And unless Helen found a way to clone scars, that's just about as irrefutable as proof comes.

Stephen. Stephen Hart.  _His_  Stephen.

He's alive. And he's standing right in front of him.

As earth-shattering as that realization is, though, Nick can't stop his eyes roaming. He's not looking for anything in particular anymore, he's just ... looking, while his brain tries to catch up with his senses, and as his eyes trace the map of scars across Stephen's tan skin, some of the pieces start to fall into place.

Twin lines catch his attention and arrest it. They run from the middle of his chest down to his left hip, where they disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. They look like claw marks, only there isn't the usual third.

Nick can only think of one way he could have come by those twin scars: the dual claws of a future predator.

He closes his eyes, and for a moment, he's back there, locked behind that door, watching Stephen step back into the circle of predators. He can see the look in his eyes. The determination, the apology. He was sacrificing himself, and he still looked sorry.

And the scream ... God, the scream. He couldn't bear to watch, but he knew, as soon as he heard it, that Stephen was dead.

But then he opens his eyes, and Stephen's there. Stephen. Not a clone, not a lookalike, but Stephen Hart, in the flesh (marred and filthy as it is). He's been through hell, and it shows. It shows in the lines and shadows under his eyes, the blood caked in his hair, the bruises on his skin. And he was right before, when he thought his face looked thinner beneath his short beard; what little fat he'd had on him before he supposedly died is gone, leaving nothing but lean, corded muscle in its wake.

There are scars Nick's never seen. Nick remembers all the scars he had before, remembers tracing them in the small hours of the night after they'd had it off, when Stephen was half-asleep and pliant, and there are ones in places there weren't before. He can only imagine the stories behind some of them. A broken half-circle on his right shoulder. A bite, maybe, from something big and horrid. Part of him doesn't want to know. Just the thought of it, of the pain that had to come from each one of them... .

"Oh, Stephen," he breathes. He didn't really mean to say it; it just came out. Some strange mix of disbelief that this is real, relief that it has to be, and shock at just what that means all whirls together with the pain meds in his head, and he's frankly amazed he can speak at all.

He doesn't mean to reach his hand out, either. Doesn't mean to trace his fingers over the longer of the two gashes on his chest. Stephen flinches at the touch, and Nick hates it. It's not the first time it's happened. It's not a novel thing. But he still hates it.

He doesn't move, though, Nick doesn't. He seems to be making a conscious effort to hold his ground, to let Nick feel what he's seen with his own two eyes.

So, Nick does. Somehow, that makes it more real, feeling the raised and unusually smooth skin against the pads of his fingers. He can't rationalize it with himself. He can't explain why he does it. He just needs to. Those two marks in particular, more than the punctures on his shoulder or the bite on the other, are evidence of what he's still having trouble wrapping his head around, yet can't bring himself to deny. Can't bring himself to want to deny.

How he survived something like what could leave those marks behind, Nick can hardly imagine. Yet, there he stands.

And in that moment, faced with the impossible (his best friend, his teammate, his lover, his saviour, back from the dead), Nick does the only thing he can do:

He wraps his one good arm around him, and pulls him into the tightest embrace he can.


	7. Chapter 7

It should be strange. Awkward. Not just because of the odd, one-handed grip and the way his arm is trapped in its sling between them.

They aren't either of them very expressive people. Even when Stephen was recovering from the Arthropleura sting, there were no grand gestures or proclamations of love. He'd taken him home as soon as he was discharged, ordered in their usual, and sat with him and watched the Liverpool match against Manchester United while his recovering lover fought sleep and eventually lost.

They're more about the little things, really, and they tend to keep them private. He's long known that's mostly for his sake, though. Nearly a decade's careful observation has shown Nick that Stephen is a very tactile person, at least with people he's comfortable with. He's seen the way he'd pick Abby up like she was nothing at all and swing her about when they were celebrating, or lean an arm on Connor just because he couldn't seem to be arsed to find a better place to put it. But he always seemed to know when to give Nick space (and when to give him absolutely no space at all, alternatively), and Nick always appreciated that.

For the most part, at any rate.

And then there's the matter of their parting. The months before Leek's attempted coup were ... strained. After they broke things off, Stephen became more aloof than ever and Nick, in hindsight, became more of a stubborn arse than ever.

In retrospect, he blames himself for a lot of what happened in the weeks leading up to the coup. He should have known better. He knows it, now. Knew it outside that door, when it was too damn late to matter.

Helen's a poison, and where he developed an immunity through bitterness and experience, Stephen never did. Stephen always seemed so ineffable, but in those years and years together, Nick learned better. He didn't just want affection; he needed it. He'd been deprived of it his whole life, from his late mother to his abusive father, and when Nick really took the time to think about it, he realized that maybe he'd been so starved for it, he'd been willing to take whatever he could get. He's not even sure he could have recognized the difference.

And it was one thing not to notice when Stephen was just his student, when he didn't know him well enough to notice such a thing, much less broach the subject. But then things changed, evolved. His student became his friend; his friend became his lover. And Nick should've known. He should've seen that gaping, sucking vacuum, and done something to fill it.

He should've made sure he knew.

He can only imagine that conversation. He has done, over too many glasses of scotch to be entirely healthy. Neither one of them were ever very good at talking about their feelings, but he should've done it anyway. Sat him down, explained it to him. Set him straight.

Helen had used him. She saw a pretty, broken thing, and she'd put it back together the way she wanted. She forced pieces to fit that didn't, and she chipped them further in the process. She hadn't loved Stephen. She hadn't even cared for him, not in the way Stephen seemed to think. Nick's not even sure that she's capable of such a thing as affection.

What they were, he and Stephen, it was different. They were both broken, and neither suited to pulling anyone back together. Instead, they were simply there, allowing each other to put themselves back together anyway they could and accepting the work in progress for what it was. Stephen was gorgeous, but he was brilliant, too. Loyal, but strong-willed. Independent, but desperate for connections on an almost visceral level, both physical and emotional.

He should've made Stephen realize how much he loved him, and how that love was different from what Helen was offering. Instead, he pushed him away. He was hurt, he was angry, and he was so, so stupid. He pushed him away, severed the only tie Stephen had to something even remotely healthy (the idea that he qualifies as "healthy" is jarring, to say the least), and he was surprised when Stephen fell back into Helen's snare?

He was a bloody fool. The both of them were, but Nick thinks he was the worse of the two.

So, it should be awkward, standing there with an arm around his damp, half-naked ex-lover. But it isn't. It's a relief. Stephen's there. He's solid, firm, alive, and Nick couldn't be happier about that. All the shite they went through the months before Stephen ... well, didn't die, it doesn't seem to matter. It's still there, and there are still things they're going to have to talk about moving forward, but they can wait.

He's just so fucking happy to have him back.

It's actually Stephen that seems wary of the contact. He flinched again, when Nick went to hug him, and though he didn't move this time either, Nick can almost feel the violent tension in his frame. For a moment, he's just stood there, stock still and taut as a bowstring, like he's not sure what's happening or what he should do with himself.

But just when it occurs to Nick to maybe let him go, it's like everything catches up. There's nothing gradual about it; it's like a switch. One second, he's stood there like a statue, and the next, he's got his arms around Nick's waist, tight as he seems to dare, face tucked against his shoulder like he's hiding from something.

It's not awkward then, either. It should be. Christ, but it should be. But after all this time, after nights dreaming of a moment like this and days missing ones like it that already passed unappreciated, it just feels right. Like this is how it's supposed to be. Part of him half-expects to hear Stephen start crying; there's just something about the desperate way he's taken to holding onto him that makes him wonder.

Or maybe he's just projecting. His own eyes are burning, vision blurring until he blinks it clear. And it's only got a little to do with the pain in his shoulder.

He doesn't know how long they're stood there. Long enough for his shoulder to really start to throb and for his legs to stiffen up, but not long enough for him to feel quite like letting go.

In the end, it's Stephen that lets go and backs away, and Nick really has no choice but to let him. He watches him sniff, once, and run a hand through his hair, and he can't help noticing his eyes look a little brighter than usual.

Maybe he wasn't projecting after all.

He also can't help noticing the way he winces. His head's still giving him fits, it seems, and Nick's not sure if it's the rain or if he's just reopened the wound, but his hand comes away red.

That's when he comes back to his senses. Yes, Stephen's back. Yes, he's staring at the face of a second chance he never dreamed he'd get. And yes, he's more than grateful for it.

But said second chance is also standing in the middle of his foyer, naked to the waist, covered in dirt and blood and soaking wet.

He clears his throat. "You should ... you should let me have a look at that," he says. He steps back in to close the distance, but Stephen steps back again, actually batting his hand away.

"It's fine."

"You're bleeding." Sluggishly, but it's there all the same. And his left eye's puffy. The bruising has spread from about halfway across his brow, down the left side of his face and even into his eye socket. The eye itself is red, where blood vessels have burst, and Nick thinks by sunrise it might be swollen shut. "It could be a concussion. What happened?"

Seemingly on impulse, Stephen reaches up to touch it. Nick's noticed it's a habit of his: whenever he's got a wound, he's got to touch it. So, he's already waiting to bat his hand away. Stephen hardly seems to notice. "Helen smacked me with a two-by-four so she could get away. And it was a concussion."

"I thought you said it was fine!" It's strange, how quickly he falls back into old habits. He's worried about him. Really worried, and frustrated as a result. Stephen could just be so hard-headed sometimes. And maybe it's a bit pot-and-kettle of him, but at three in the morning, with his shoulder on fire and his nerves beyond frayed, he just doesn't have it in him to deal with it. It's been a stressful sort of day.

Not that he can talk. He imagines, for Stephen, it's been a pretty stressful year. And he can practically feel the distress rolling off him in waves. He still hasn't forgotten about Helen. Of course he hasn't, and Nick can tell it's agitating him beyond measure.

That doesn't make it any less irritating (or worrisome) when he shrugs. "It is. It's been more than twenty-four hours. If it were serious, I'd know by now."

"Half your bloody face is a bruise, Stephen."

"I've always thought my right was my better side, anyway."

Nick could scream. But frankly, that would take far too much effort, and he's too damn tired. So, instead, he sighs and takes a deep breath. Would you just let me have a look at it?" Only he doesn't give him a chance to answer before he reaches for him again, hooking a hand around the back of his neck and holding him firmly in place when he steps up to get a better look at it.

Stephen's eyes close briefly. His nose flares. His jaw clenches.

And it doesn't matter how frustrated or tired or sore Nick is, he isn't immune to the sight. He's so damn skittish, Stephen is. Wary of everything. He's wound tighter than a thirteen-hour clock.

He wonders if he's always like this, these days, or if it might have anything to do with the shadows and bags under his eyes and the crack on his head. Hypervigilance is a symptom of sleep deprivation; and although Stephen was right, that twenty-four hours without severe symptoms means the concussion probably isn't critical, it means he's probably post-concussive.

The old mantra returns. Proceed with caution, handle with care.

"Take it easy," he says, voice low and, he hopes, soothing. It's a sharp contrast to before, but worry has interceded and taken the place of his frustration for the most part. And he knows how to do this. He's seen Stephen through rough nights. He's woken to his breathy whines and restless movements, and had to talk him down from whatever emotional ledge his nightmares have pushed him to. "I'm not going to hurt you. You know that. So just settle down, now."

Part of him thinks Stephen needs to be told. He needs to hear things spoken, and he needs direction sometimes, when he's too flustered or distressed to think properly for himself.

He'd like to have Stephen in for a CT scan, as soon as possible. But something tells him the likelihood of getting him to set foot in a hospital, much less lie still in a machine for half an hour or more while they scan his brain for lesions, is slim to nil. Leaning towards nil.

He'll have to improvise. "Does it hurt?"

Stephen's only answer is a bland look.

"Right. Stupid question." He can't be blamed, really. He's not a doctor in the medical sense, and he's not exactly at the top of his game just now, either. "Let's try again: on a scale of one to ten, how much does it hurt. And if you say anything lower than a five, I'll swat you on the nose."

Because he saw him flinch, and now that he's standing closer and really looking for it, he can see him squinting even in the relatively dim lighting of the house.

What's more, Nick knows Stephen. At least, he used to, and he's lucky enough that some of it seems to have survived whatever Stephen's minimal peace of mind hadn't. Stephen has tells. It took Nick years to pick them out, subtle and hidden as they were. Watching him scrunch his eyes over the next dissertation or homework assignment, seeing the clench of his jaw, the way he'd roll his shoulders and head when he thought Nick wasn't looking, and blink more than usual.

Besides the obvious lack of dissertations or homework, all the signs are there. "It's bad, isn't it?"

Stephen frowns. "Haven't even given you a number yet."

"Well?" If he wants to give him one, Nick's happy to have the additional information.

"Five and a half."

Nick narrows his eyes. "Try again."

"Seven."

"Getting warmer."

The noise Stephen lets out could most closely be called a growl. He starts to shift back, only to realize he can't without pulling Nick with him. So, he settles his weight back where it was, shifting from foot to foot instead like a nervous colt. "If you already have a number in your head, why did you ask."

"I wanted to see if you'd tell me," Nick answers honestly. He wanted to see if he would trust him enough for that. Stephen's never been quick to admit pain or sickness or any other sort of perceived weakness under the sun, but usually, he would cave under the right pressure.

This time, Nick can practically see his hackles rise.

"So this was a test?" He doesn't bark it out or shout it; it sounds cautious and tired. Miserable.

Pained.

Nick almost feels guilty for saying anything in the first place. He shakes his head. "No, it wasn't a test. I just wanted to know."

At first, Stephen doesn't say anything. He wraps his arms around his middle like he's cold (he probably is, but Nick doubts that's all there is to it) and glances over at the window. But then, "Feels like my skull's splitting in two," he admits in a mumble.

It's a start, and Nick'll take it. Still, he can't help pressing his luck. "And there's nothing I can do to convince you to go to casualty?" He's already tacked concussion onto his growing list of concerns for his newly-returned ... whatever the hell they are now, and that's on top of the lingering rasp and rattle in his chest and the obvious dehydration and malnutrition. He needs to be seen to; he's not healthy. It'd be for his own good.

But Stephen just fixes him with another look.

Ah, well. "Thought I'd ask, at least." He wasn't really expecting to make any headway there, anyway. "Maybe just a shower, then?"

At that, Stephen seems to brighten a little. It's the first real sign of something positive he's seen in him this whole time, and over so small a thing as that. It's sad, in a way. It makes Nick wonder what kind of conditions he's been living in that the promise of hot water and a chance to clean off can bring a light back to his eyes.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'" He gestures to the stairs. "It's yours if you want it. Everything's where it's always been," he says, and then remembers that it's been more than a year since Stephen's seen where everything is, so he adds, "but I can dig it all out, if you like."

Stephen starts to shake his head, but Nick's still got his hand on his neck and manages to still it before he can rattle his brain about. Poor thing's probably taken enough of a beating for a while.

Mercifully, Stephen takes the hint. And although he slips gracefully, if pointedly, out of Nick's grasp, he doesn't seem to mind that Nick had a grasp to begin with. "You shouldn't even be up," he says, eyes flickering meaningfully down to his shoulder. He frowns deeply, and a shadow settles over his face. "Is it ... they wouldn't tell me how you were. How bad was it?"

"Not as bad as it could've been, if you hadn't been there," Nick says.

"That's not an answer."

Nick almost smiles. There's a bit of the Stephen he remembers in there, yet. He's catching glimpses of him. Hopefully, after he's washed away some of the grime and misery, more of him will break through.

"I won't be in the discus competition this year, but it'll heal."

It's still not the answer he thinks Stephen's looking for, but it's enough that Stephen finally relents. "I can manage, if you want to go back to sleep. I'll try not to break anything."

Nick's more worried about him shipping out without a warning, but he doesn't say as much.

"I'll be fine," he tells him. "Just go shower. I'll see if I can find something for you to change into, and when you come back down, bring the first aid kit." There's his head to take care of; at the least, he can close up the wound with some butterfly stitches, minimize the scarring and help it get healing. And he's got cuts and scrapes all over, not to mention the burn on the back of his arm he's only just noticed.

He can see the protest forming on Stephen's lips, but before he can open his mouth to speak, he seems to have a change of heart. He stops, takes a shallow breath, and instead offers a small, "Thanks."

And then he turns and starts for the stairs, giving Nick plain view of his back. Nick watches him go, not caring if he's staring. His eyes trace the coils of muscle and the web of scars. He can see where the topmost of the two claw marks reaches around his side and onto his back before following the other under his waistband, and there's another half circle on the back of his right shoulder to match the bite on his front.

It's no wonder he's so high strung, Nick thinks.

As Stephen reaches the top of the stairs, Nick's about to go to the kitchen (he didn't think to ask if Stephen's eaten, but he's going to assume could do with something) when he sees him stop.

"Something the matter?" he asks.

This time, there's nothing he can do to stop Stephen shaking his head. And he doesn't miss the way his grip tightens on the stair rail. "No," he says. "It's just—I'm glad you're alright, Cutter."

On the one hand, he misses the days when they were close enough that Stephen called him Nick without reservation. On the other, though, he's just too bloody pleased he's there to say anything at all to care. "I'm glad you are, too." Although, watching him waver as he turns round and seeing his muscles swell and shift under the scar tissue, he has to admit, it's probably more of a work in progress.

He's alive. 'Alright' can come later.

Just as long as he gets a later.


	8. Chapter 8

At the very least, he gets about half an hour, while Stephen showers. That's one thing that hasn't changed, it seems. Stephen's always been one for long showers. Knowing what he does about him, Nick supposes it makes sense. For someone that likes running around in the woods, getting caked with dirt and mud and slicked with sweat, he's actually a very clean creature. Like a cat; the man showered once, sometimes twice a day whenever he could.

He likes to be warm, too, and Nick can't help wondering how long it's been since he's had a proper warm shower. That in mind, he lets him have his time.

He does start to wonder at the half-hour mark. He thinks maybe Stephen's slipped out, or maybe that he's passed out or something in the shower. It's not until he's two steps up and sees Stephen appear at the top of the stairs that he realizes he's being ridiculous. Or paranoid, one.

Stephen doesn't seem to be bothered, at least. He even smiles, sort of. "Coming to make sure I haven't slipped out the bedroom window?"

It sounds even more ridiculous when Stephen says it, especially looking like he does. Nick can't decide if he looks better or worse now that he's cleaned up. On the one hand, he doesn't look like he's just crawled out of a burning building, but on the other, he can see just how bad the wounds are now that there's no dirt or soot to hide them.

"You wouldn't in those clothes," Nick says, indicating with a stiff tilt of his head the clothes Stephen's wearing. They're Nick's, just a pair of running trousers he never wears (Nick's got a shirt for him waiting on the table, but there's no point in him putting it on until Nick's patched him up), and they're too big on him. They hang low on his hips, and even tired and sore as he is, he can't help noticing the dip of his hip bones and the thin trail of hair that runs from his navel to disappear beneath the band of the trousers.

Of course, he can't help noticing the scars, either. And while they aren't grotesque, while it's not offensive in any way to see the lines of scars, pale on his naked tan torso, they're a reminder of everything that happened the day of the coup and of what Stephen's been through since.

"You're staring."

That Nick is. Unashamedly, at that. He'll stop looking when he's tired of seeing him there, alive. And something tells him that's going to be a long time. Maybe the meds have made him bold. Or maybe it's just relief at having him back.

That's the answer Nick goes with. "Just can't believe you're back."

"Tell you the truth?" Stephen says softly. "I can't, either."

Nick can hear in his voice that he's got mixed feelings about that. He tries not to take offence to it, though. Of course he has mixed feelings. He's had a lot happen, today. He's been locked in a room, interrogated, gone on the run, and now he's lost something (someone, but Nick doesn't really want to think on that too much) he's been tracking through hell and back for the past year.

But he's also still smiling, and he looks at least a little bit content, a little bit more relaxed than he was before, and Nick decides to focus on that.

The silence stretches on between them, and even though it isn't necessarily uncomfortable, Nick clears his throat to break it. "Well, what do you say we have a look at you, then?" It isn't really a request, and he doesn't wait for an answer, turning and going back down the stairs into the sitting room. He trusts Stephen to follow him. He's got no reason to leave just now, after all. Not yet.

"You don't have to," Stephen protests, even as he joins Nick in the main room. "Shouldn't you be resting, anyway? With your shoulder, I mean."

"Sit," Nick says instead of answering. He doesn't feel the need to tell Stephen about all the restless hours leading up to this; he'll sleep better knowing Stephen's here and at least something close to taken care of.

Stephen does.

He takes the seat in the middle of the sofa, and Nick sits down on the table in front of him. The first aid kit is on the table just beside him.

Stephen doesn't protest as much as Nick thought he would as he gets started. He's mostly still as Nick sets to work. Mostly, because he can't seem to help flinching when Nick reaches for him.

"Sorry," he says.

Nick shakes his head. "Not your fault." It really isn't. Stephen always has trouble with things like this, letting someone take care of him like this. He remembers after the Gorgonopsid knocked into him, it took nearly passing out mid-snog for him to admit he'd hurt his ribs, and another half an hour and the threat of an ambulance for him to let Nick bind them and ply him with painkillers and ice. He'd fidgeted the whole bloody time, too.

And that was when they were comfortable with one another.

He doesn't think Stephen is, strictly speaking, uncomfortable with him now. But there is an underlying tension between them that neither of them are rested and stable enough to talk about tonight. Probably doesn't help that he's spent the last few hours taxing the hell out of his sympathetic nervous system. He thinks, after this past year, 'fight or flight' might be his default setting.

He doesn't do either, fortunately, but his foot is bouncing a quick rhythm on the floor, and he's twisting the drawstring of his trousers around his fingers almost compulsively.

The second time he jerks back from the alcohol wipe, Nick sits back with a sigh. "I know you're not doing it on purpose," he says, cutting off the apology he can see forming on Stephen's lips, "but as you can see, I've only got the one hand. I can't chase you."

"I can do it," Stephen says mildly.

Nick shakes his head. "I can do it. I just need you to let me." He reaches for him again, but instead of going for the wound on his head, he cups the side of his face. Stephen doesn't jerk back this time, though Nick can tell it takes that same effort as before. He appreciates it. He holds him there, locking eyes and smiling softly as if to say, 'See? This is alright. This is okay,' and smoothes his thumb along the edge of the bruise on the left side of Stephen's face. His eye really does look vicious, the bright lakebed blue ringed with blood red where the white should be. "I know what I'm doing, alright? And I won't even make you go to the hospital. So just come here—there, like that—and let me take care of you."

Stephen's scooted up to the edge of the sofa, his knees bracketing Nick's. He's all leg, Stephen is. Any closer, and his legs would be bumping the table. But this is close enough. Nick Barely has to reach this time to wipe the alcohol swab across the cut, and this time, when Stephen flinches, he manages to keep still.

It's Nick who apologizes this time. "Sorry." He knows the alcohol stings, and even the slightest pressure on the tender bruising has to hurt something fierce. When he's finished, he blows on the wet patch to help the alcohol dry, and is surprised to hear Stephen laugh.

"What?" he asks as he sets to smearing antibiotic cream over the wound. He tuts when Stephen starts to shake his head, which just makes Stephen laugh that much harder.

Nick had almost forgotten what Stephen's laugh sounds like. Even before the coup, he didn't hear much of it. Not after Helen. He didn't realize until now how much he missed it, the soft richness of it, the way his eyes crinkle and his cheeks dimple. Christ, but those dimples.

"Just forgot how much of a mother hen you can be," Stephen says.

"Mother hen?" Nick doesn't stop, though, pulling some butterfly stitches tight over the cut, wincing as Stephen does. Absent a spare hand, he bumps his leg with his knee. "And what does that make you?"

"Good question."

"I ask those from time to time." Sitting back, he taps Stephen on the shoulder. "Turn around. I need to see that burn."

He sees the hesitation, sees him pause. There's a flash of something that isn't quite panic, but is something close. It's so ... beyond Nick, to comprehend how such a simple thing as turning his back to someone can be so alarming. But even before all of this, Stephen was always a little tetchy about things like that. It was more subtle: putting his back to walls in a room, favouring corners instead of the middle of the room, turning around whenever someone passed behind him. But he imagines a year on the run would probably stand to exacerbate any nervous habits someone has. He spent a year fearing for his life; Nick has to expect some fallout from that.

It makes him appreciate it that much more when Stephen gives him his back, anyway. He's suddenly acutely aware of the position they're in. Specifically, the position Stephen's in: stuck on the sofa, legs folded up for lack of anywhere else to put them, trusting a man who, despite his standing promise not to hurt him, still hasn't made his feelings towards him entirely clear.

It hasn't escaped his memory that the last time Nick saw Stephen before he disappeared, he was still sporting a bruise from where Nick had punched him across the cheek.

He'd told him he'd never hurt him before that, too. A few months before, maybe, but that doesn't change the principle of the thing.

It's that, knowing how anxious he is (seeing it with his own two eyes, in the rigid set of his bare shoulders) that makes him pause before he starts on the fist-sized welt on the back of Stephen's shoulder. Instead, he settles a hand between his shoulder blades, splaying his fingers slowly, deliberately. It's something he's done before. Nights he would wake up to the sounds of panted breaths or quiet whines, when Stephen would sit up on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands or pace in front of the window like he was trapped inside.

Those nights, he'd catch him and come up behind him. Slowly, gently, so as not to startle him, he'd settle a hand between his shoulders, warm and firm. Back then, he'd usually kikss a path down his neck and shoulders, until the tension started to ebb away. He'd pull him into a kiss, drag him back into bed, hold him until his breathing evened out and his body relaxed.

He doesn't do that, now. It's not that he doesn't want to, because as he's somewhat baffled to find, he really does. He wants to do all of those things, just like he used to. That's part of the problem, though, because they clearly aren't that anymore, and things are confused enough without confusing that particular issue. He's no expert, but what Nick thinks Stephen needs now is stable. And he knows he personally needs a chance to wrap his head around things.

He thinks the hand is okay, though, because it came before everything else. It came when Stephen was still his grad student, when Stephen's father made his last visit (he's not dead, as far as Nick knows; after what he's done to Stephen, death would be too kind) and left Stephen in the kind of state that usually precedes a lot of alcohol and poor decisions. To be fair, it had, but at least he hadn't been alone.

It's a gesture of comfort, of solidarity. It's ... gentling. And for someone like Stephen, who's so desperate for any kind of connection, it's a channel he needs to keep from drawing in on himself.

It works. He stiffens at first, but then he lets out a breath and relaxes. It shouldn't mean as much to Nick as it does, but something about the familiarity of it speaks to him.

"You're alright," he tells him, and he repeats the phrase several times as he starts cleaning the burn. Stephen tenses, back arching away, but it's more from pain, Nick thinks, than nerves. That doesn't make it any better, just different. "Almost done, just keep breathing. Try to relax."

Stephen's taken to holding the back cushion of the sofa. He's resting his chin on it, and has his arms stuck between it and the back of the sofa. Nick can't tell if he just wanted something to hold onto or if he's trying to keep himself still, but Nick just lets him and tries to work as quickly as he can, cleaning it out and smearing a thick layer of ointment over the blistered skin. He tapes a pad of gauze over it.

The rest of the burns aren't so bad. The skin is red, but not blistered, and only in a few spots on his back and along his arms.

"Nick?" Stephen sits up a bit and turns when Nick rises.

Nick brushes a hand through the back of his hair. Another too-familiar gesture. It's easy to forget how tactile he is around Stephen. It's not in his nature, but it's reassuring, and not just to Stephen. It's reassuring to Nick. In a way, he thinks he needs that channel, that connection. Especially with Stephen. "Just going to get some aloe. Stay there."

He's slow going. His shoulder's aching with a vengeance, and if he didn't think they would knock him out, he'd take another dose of his painkillers.

As it is, he just grabs the bottle of aloe and pockets the blister pack for later, before going back to the sitting room.

He stops in the doorway.

Stephen hasn't moved, at least. If anything, he's settled in. Nick was only gone for a minute or two, but he's got his head pillowed on the cushion, and his eyes are closed. His breathing's as steady as Nick thinks it's going to be, with his ribs in the state that they are (that is, bruised and sore-looking), and if Nick didn't know any better, he'd say he's taking a kip.

As Nick approaches, he stirs a bit, blinking his eyes open and lifting his head. He might've been napping after all, because he has that bleary, semi-startled look that he gets. His hair, nearly dry now, is sticking up in all sorts of directions, and it doesn't even occur to Nick until right at that moment that he's shaved. He's just so used to seeing him clean shaven, it didn't strike him as odd when he saw him that way.

Nick's suddenly reminded of a working night. Stephen isn't usually the first to fall asleep, but sometimes, he'd catch him dozed off over a pillow in his lap, pen still in his hand. There's no pen, now, but the feeling is still there.

Nick smiles. "You can go back the way you were," he tells him as he sits back down on the table. "I won't take offense." Actually, he's glad. He's glad Stephen's settling down enough to be drowsy. He's not sure how long it's been since Stephen's slept, but he thinks it's too long.

Stephen's gaze lingers on him over his shoulder for a moment longer, but then he turns back around and rests his head back on the pillow.

Intent on finishing this as quickly as possible, he squirts some of the aloe out onto his palm and rubs it as well as he can in just the one hand to warm it before he starts spreading it out over the burns. Stephen's breath hitches a bit, but otherwise, he doesn't react.

"This is familiar," he muses aloud. Stephen's always been fond of the sun and not so fond of sunscreen. Granted, with him, it's one day burned and next day brown, if he even burns at all. Nick, not so much. "Though I seem to remember it usually being the other way around." He keeps his voice soft so it doesn't bother Stephen any, but Stephen told him once he likes the sound of his voice (his accent, specifically). He's not sure if he still does, but he wants to do anything he can to make Stephen comfortable.

Apparently, it works. Stephen actually lets out a quiet moan as Nick smoothes some aloe over a burn on the small of his back. That's familiar, too, although it's a bit different, now. There's nothing sexual about this. They're both so tired and out of sorts, it just isn't there. It just feels good, and Nick can understand that. He's just glad he's not in so much pain anymore.

By the time he finishes, he thinks Stephen is actually asleep, or at least someplace close. It's a good feeling. It's not just about the trust, but the nostalgia of it. He's missed this. He's missed Stephen, and having him back ... it's more than Nick ever dared ask for.

There's still a lot of unknowns, a lot of things left unanswered. But right then, in that moment, he can't bring himself to care. He just sits there, watching the rise and fall of Stephen's chest, recommitting every familiar part of him to memory and mapping every new mark and scar.

It takes more than he thinks it should to bring himself to wake Stephen up. It's only after he's put the aloe up, taken some of his painkillers with a glass of water, and fetched some linens out of the closet that he comes back in the living room to wake him.

He doesn't give him a shake, just sits down on the arm of the sofa and reaches over to brush a hand through his hair. It's enough to wake him, but he's relieved when he doesn't start awake. He just blinks awake and lifts his head to look at Nick.

"Hey."

"I fell asleep?" It doesn't sound like a genuine question. Nick actually thinks he's surprised with himself.

Nick nods. "Seems so. You're tired." He hasn't taken his hand away from Stephen's hair, not that Stephen seems to mind. If anything, he seems to be leaning his head against Nick's hand. Nick's half surprised he doesn't hear purring, and it makes him happy. It's such a change from the frantic, cagey man in the room that morning that he almost can't believe it. He doesn't expect it'll last, once Stephen's not so tired he can't think straight, but that just makes him all the more intent to enjoy it while he can. "Just one more thing before you can sleep," he says. "How are the ribs?"

Stephen takes a breath like he's testing them, running his fingers over the bruise on his side gingerly. "They'll be okay."

"Will it help you to wrap them?" It won't do much, medically speaking. But it could give him some comfort he doesn't have, now.

"They'll be okay," Stephen repeats a little sluggishly.

Nick rolls his eyes. "I know. But would they be better if they were wrapped?"

Stephen seems to think for a moment, but then shakes his head (Nick winces for him.) "They're okay. I'm okay," he says, and then, as an afterthought, he adds, "Thanks."

There's a weight to the one word that Stephen shouldn't be able to manage as knackered as he is. It makes Nick slow down as it sinks in. He's not really sure what all it means to Stephen, saying it, but it means a lot to Nick, hearing it.

"You're welcome," he says finally, and even if it's not quite as weighted as Stephen's, there's a duality to it. He's welcome in every sense of the word. Welcome for the concern. Welcome for the night.

Welcome home.

He hesitates as he stands to leave. Even if Stephen couldn't tuck himself in, Nick can't really offer much help in that regard. He's brought him a pillow and a comforter. He actually thinks for a minute about offering to share his bed, for want of a guest room, but again, he thinks that would be confusing the issue. Besides, Stephen's slept many a night on that couch. So has Nick, to be honest. It's not a bad place to sleep.

Certainly better than a lot of places Stephen's probably had to sleep.

It's a sobering thought, but at the same time, it makes him feel better. Because he's not in those places anymore. He's here. He's back.

He's home.

And Christ, that thought shouldn't come as easy or stick as well as it does. But Nick's too tired to fight it. He's ... satisfied. Happy, even. And yet, as he starts towards the stairs, he can't help feeling a nervous pull in his gut.

"Stephen?" he says as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and stops.

Stephen's head appears over the back of the sofa. "Yeah?"

"Be here in the morning."

Stephen doesn't answer, but he smiles, and that's enough for Nick.

And this time, when Nick goes to bed, he's asleep in minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critiques are appreciated.


End file.
